


Stars and Clouds and Firelight

by buttheyrebrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camping, Fluff, M/M, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttheyrebrothers/pseuds/buttheyrebrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is once again hunted by the FBI so Sam suggest to lay low for a bit. Dean thinks this is too low, even for them.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>This is nothing but a fluffy camping fic set in Season 2 after "Nightshifter". Total self-indulgence. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars and Clouds and Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the amazing piece of fanart you can see above the story, courtesy to the wonderful [Joan](http://deansbeerbottle.tumblr.com/), who drew it for the Wincest Love Week. I saw it and fell in love, so this camping story was born. Special thanks goes out to [Aqua](http://sal-si-puedes.tumblr.com/) who gave this a once over despite her insane workload. I love you! *huggle-smooch* All remaining mistakes are mine.You can’t have them!

_ _

_“Camping is nature’s way of promoting the motel business. ”_    
― [ **Dave Barry**](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fauthor%2Fshow%2F6245.Dave_Barry&t=M2QxNDQyN2NjNzc0ZGI4MWNlZDUwNWUyMDdkZjM1ZjRkYzI0N2VhZiwySTlJQU5reA%3D%3D)

“I have nature in my hair. And in my shorts.”

Sam trudges on, silent.

“Something’s poking my ass and not in the fun way.”

Ignoring’s what works best with his brother.

“Seriously, dude. Do you smell that? Smells like fox piss. Or maybe it’s your shampoo, heh.”

_Don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait._

“Where are we even going? I mean everything looks the same here, dude. It’s all fucking green. Like St. Patrick’s Day but without the beer and the chicks.”

Maybe, if he just answers Dean will stop.

“We’re looking for a clearing so we can make a fire without burning down the forest. Like you very well know. It’s not the first time we go camping, Dean.”

“You know, we could just go back to the car, find a diner and have some greasy goodness in less than two hours if we hurry up. No need for clearings, fires or, god beware, sleeping in tents.”

Yeah, fat chance.

“We’re here because _someone_ is – again, I might add – sought by the police for murder. So we need to lay low. This. This is laying low.”

Dean snorts. “This is low alright.”

“Dean, I swear.” Sam growls. “I have it up to here with your stupid, reckless shit. If you want to go to jail? Fine. Be my guest.”

Without another word Sam stomps off. He _knows_ that this is Dean’s way of dealing. Making a joke out of it. Shoving it away. Dealing by not dealing.

“Oh come on, don’t be such a girl, Samantha.” Dean catches up to him and they go on, side by side. They’re walking close enough for their shoulders to touch and their hands brush more than once. Neither moves away. He feels Dean’s eyes on him as they silently make their way through the vastness of green around them.

When they finally find a nice spot to set up camp Sam’s almost smiling.

*****************************************

The peace doesn’t last.

Sam’s setting up the tent while Dean sits on their green cooler, being as useful as a vacuum cleaner in the desert.

“You know what I like about motels, Sammy?” There’s a pause, like he actually expects an answer. When none comes he goes on, unperturbed by Sam’s silent fuming. “Everything’s ready. No need to do a thing but kick back and relax. This camping shit’s fucking exhausting.”

 _The nerve_ , Sam thinks as he finishes sliding the tent poles through the small flaps at the top of the tent. He tries to fit the poles through the connection spots so that they’ll bend and raise the tent but it’s hard to coordinate all four edges at the same time. He opens his mouth to snap at Dean that some help would be very much appreciated. He is, however, beat to it when the other side of the tent lifts as the poles find their right places and the tent rises easily.

Over the top of the tent Dean is smirking at him and Sam’s not sure how to name the feeling in his gut. It could be annoyance if not for the way his mouth tries to echo his brother’s expression.

“Good thing you have me around to do the heavy stuff.” Dean asks, tongue-in-cheek.

Sam thinks he doesn’t quite hit the sarcastic tone he is going for when he says, “I know”.

***************************************

Things are looking up, at least that’s what Sam’s thinking, when the tent finally stands and they both have a beer in celebration.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe they can just kick back for a bit here. Enjoy the warm summer days. Regroup. Let the cops lose their tail, let the dust settle. Maybe they even get some kind of vacation out of it. God knows they need it.

Maybe, just once, they’ll get lucky.

“So, what now?” Dean asks.

It’s a broad question. From all the ways Sam could answer it he chooses the easiest one. “Don’t know. Find some twigs; make a fire to heat up some soup. Maybe make some s’mores? “ If anything can distract Dean it’s the promise of food.

Dean’s eyebrows pull together ever so slightly and his mouth thins. He knows what Sam’s doing, just like he knew that Sam was secretly stopping at a pet shop every day after school instead of going straight home when he was eight. Back then, he didn’t call Sam out on it.

“You get the twigs. Was your idea in the first place.” With that he’s up and walking towards the tent without a backwards glance. Sam knows when he’s being dismissed. For someone who never wants to talk about anything more important than where to stop next for dinner Dean sure as hell gets prissy if you evade his questions.

Sam figures the best way to appease his brother is to prepare everything beforehand. This way all that’s left to do is eat when he gets his brother from where he is most likely hiding in the tent. And so Sam stumbles through the woods, always close enough to their camp that he’s in shouting range. As he picks up dry wood he thinks back to that goddamn case. Behind his lids he sees Ronald’s face, the almost comical widening of his eyes as the bullet hits him. Another innocent life they can add to their body count.

S’mores sound like a great idea right now.  

Not even half an hour later he returns to the campsite with his arms full of twigs and small branches. Dean’s still nowhere to be seen and Sam figures he’s still pouting so he starts gathering some dirt and stones to make a fire ring. The twigs and small, leafless branches go in the middle. Sam’s got a nice fire going in under five minutes and he thinks about John and his lessons. Thinks about a gloomy teenager and remembers the resentment he felt at those endless lectures and trainings their father put them through.

The longing is still raw, an ache in his chest that never leaves.

*********************************

They brought some canned soups, a tin can, some cutlery and two bowls. Sam’s actually surprised they have that much to begin with. It’s all the same from back when they were kids and the feeling of nostalgia is warm and stifling at the same time.

He pours the soup into the tin can – meat balls, rice and tomato, Dean’s choice – and puts it in the fire. This, this is what they need, Sam’s sure of that. With everything going to shit lately it feels like the right thing to do. Taking a step back. Sure, he knows there is no running, no hiding from the demon and he doesn’t want that either. He’s scared of what’s about to happen but he won’t back down. Not after everything they’ve lost.

But something’s changed. He’s no longer willing to sacrifice everything for his revenge, would rather bide their time if it means keeping Dean safe.

Sam finds Dean in their tent, which is not surprising. What has him staring at his brother in disbelief, however, is that he’s bundled up in some sheets instead of their sleeping bags. They look ridiculously soft even from where he’s standing. Judging by the way Dean is spread out on them like a cat in the sun they probably are.

“Dinner’s ready. My lord,” Sam adds with a mocking grin. Sometimes he doesn’t understand at all. Dean is the most badass hunter Sam knows, he has faced corpses (human or not) on an almost daily basis and grew up in motel rooms and run down houses. He also scrunches up his nose at sticky handrails or receivers, he finds witches disgusting and has a fear of germs. Dean Winchester, a walking contradiction.

“Oh shuddup. You know what they say. He laughs best that laughs last, bitch.”

The sheets do look comfy, not that Sam would admit that though, so he just says, “You coming, jerk?”

So they end up eating soup in companionable silence, side by side on a big log Sam found in the woods as well. The soup tastes better than Sam expected. Dean seems to agree if the way he’s wolfing it down without pausing to breathe is any indication. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down rapidly as he swallows down spoonful after spoonful.

“Something on my face?” he asks because Sam’s been staring at him for too long. The question makes droplets of soup fly everywhere, words barely intelligibly. It should be disgusting but all Sam sees is the glistening of Dean’s lips and how full they look by it.

“Ew, Dean. You could at least swallow before you talk,” he says because it’s easier than answering the question.

Dean leers at him. “You’re saying this to all your girls?” Trust Dean to make it about sex. What’s worse is that this time his thoughts are not that different from Sam’s. He can imagine those lips wrapped around his dick and Dean swallowing his load, throat working in pretty much the same way. Sam has thought about it more than once, mostly in the ostensible privacy of motel showers with Dean only one thin wall away.

“You’re so classy, Dean,” he says lamely. What else is there to say, really? _No, because I only want to come in your mouth_? Sam doesn’t want to think about Dean’s reaction to that. He rather grabs one of the marshmallows to roast over the fire.

Dean follows suit, apparently willing to drop it, something that makes Sam suspicious. His brother never drops anything with the potential to make fun of Sam. But he has learned never to look a gift horse in the mouth so he silently watches the flames dance in front of him.

It’s peaceful, the way it’s just them. Even knowing that you should be afraid of the dark doesn’t change the fact that Sam feels safe. Whatever comes at them here it’ll be something they can face, he’s sure of that.

“This ain’t so bad, I guess. Trumps jail, at least.” S _orry I was such a prissy bitch._

“You’re way too pretty for prison anyway.” _It’s okay._

They’re both looking at each other with smiling eyes and grinning mouths and it’s almost scary how easy it can be. Sam becomes aware of all the places they’re touching, the hard lines of Dean’s body pressing against his side, warm and safe and sure. Like he belongs, the space there carved out just for him. The fire’s painting Dean’s face in a soft light, eyes bigger and features even more beautiful than usual. There’s no thought, no hesitation as he inches even closer, always closer. He goes slow, giving Dean time to pull away, to make a joke and defuse the tension.

He doesn’t.

They’re so close that Sam can smell tomato on Dean’s breath from their earlier meal and the scent of pine trees in his hair. His lips touch Sam’s soft like a butterfly’s wing before Dean recoils with a hiss. “What the – “

Sam’s gooey marshmallow that had dangled above them as his focus was more on his brother’s full lips than the roasting sweets has dropped down in Dean’s lap. There won’t be a burn thanks to the thick jeans he’s wearing but their moment is as ruined as Dean’s pants. Sam expects him to throw another fit and complain about this stupid camping trip but he doesn’t.

He laughs.

Full body laughter with his eyes crinkling at the corners and his body shaking with it. It’s a mesmerizing sight and Sam is helplessly caught between confusion, lust and amusement.

“Oh man, it’s like every bad chick flick I ever watched,” Dean wheezes between something that sounded honest-to-god like _giggles_.

Sam smirks back at him, falling on the side of amusement. “So you freely admit to watching chick flicks? I need this in writing.”

“Shut up.”

The moment might be ruined but Sam isn’t too sad about it. It feels too good to see Dean laugh like that, to let go for a bit. There’s also still something between them, some kind of slow burning anticipation. Something’s about to happen.

***************************************************

It doesn’t.

At least not that night. They both eat more s’mores than can be healthy, reminisce about the times they went camping with their father (“Remember when that skunk sprayed you?” Dean almost falls off of the log with laughter. “Are you kidding? Dad burned my clothes and made me swim in the river until my skin was so pruney I looked like a raisin.”) and watched the stars above them.

At some point Sam must have fallen asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder. He’s woken by hands stroking his hair from his face but when he looks up Dean’s busy stuffing his face with the last marshmallows.

“Wanna turn in?” Dean asks with his teeth stuck together by a sticky white mass. Sam hums in agreement, world still wonderfully fuzzy around him. He stumbles over to their tent while Dean puts out the fire with some sand and clears away the remains of their dinner. It has gotten cold so Sam only sheds his jeans before he crawls into his sleeping bag. He eyes Dean’s sheets with envy.

The owner of said sheets catches him dallying over them. “I told you he laughs best that laughs last. I guess I should start laughing. But that’d be like kicking a puppy. A pathetic looking one at that,” Dean says as he slips under them.

Sam scowls at him as much as it’s possible through the slight chattering of his teeth. The scowl, however, vanishes when Dean lifts the corner of his sheets. “Scoot over.” Sam doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s warm, that’s the first thing he notices. Warm and soft. And it smells heavenly like detergent and Dean. His brother is a comforting presence at his side with their bodies touching at various spots, not quite cuddling but closer than necessary. Sam hopes his content sigh tells Dean how much he appreciates the gesture.

“Goodnight, Sammy.” The smile in Dean’s voice says it does.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [Tumblr](http://buttheyrebrothers.tumblr.com/), come say Hi!


End file.
